Far from my Gaze
by Staraito
Summary: After the fall, try as he might, Sherlock just can't keep away from John. Hinted johnlock. Oneshot


_**AC: **Oh my gosh, I totally forgot to upload this here. It's been on my computer for a while and was inspired by the drawing 'A No-Patch Kind of Day' by Toerning over at deviant art! I turned her beautiful happy picture into a sad pit of dispare. Sorry! _

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Sherlock visited him every night.

For the first few months it was hard to find him, since he never seemed to settle in one place. Sometimes he was with Sarah. Other nights, he wound up at Molly's. Once Sherlock even found him in Gregory Lestrade's spare room. But mainly he drifted between hostels, a different one every night. It was about 4 months before Sherlock found him in the flat.

It should have been dusty. Nothing had moved and all his equipment was still there, un-finished experiments waiting for his attention to return. It was all clean. Sherlock had to smile at little at Mrs. Hudson's strength.

That first night, he didn't sleep. Neither of them did. Sherlock just watched carefully from the window as he sat in his chair, feet bare and expression worn. He didn't move, he didn't speak. He just sat. Sherlock watched him all night for the first time.

He was on the sofa, finally asleep, the next night. Still nothing had been touched and Sherlock felt a frown crease his brow. He knew that the frozen state of the flat was hurting him. So why wasn't he throwing anything away? Sherlock pressed his long fingers to the glass, tracing his face as if to caress. He climbed down the stone and left.

The weeks turned into months and Sherlock watched from the window every night. One night, He found him asleep with Sherlock's old coat wrapped around him. It had been released from the evidence locker just hours before. He could tell from the tear tracks that it must have still smelt of him.

It took a lot of effort to break into the flat without a sound. The adrenalin pumped through his heart at a pace almost double then usual, and his skin was covered in goose bumps but Sherlock made it to the living room without a sound. His usually cold and calculating eyes fell on the form curled on the sofa and softened. He had only meant to see him, check if he was okay, but without thinking he was pulling his armchair to the sofa side and picking up his violin.

The notes formed effortlessly, traveling from brain to fingers without thought. He didn't stop to write down the melody that was forming. It wasn't for that. This wasn't composing for thinking or for an audience. This was for him and him alone. Sherlock was gone by the time he opened his eyes.

Months turned into years and Sherlock watched as he returned slowly, ever so slowly to normal life. It started with sleeping in his bedroom rather then the sofa. Then the signs of his job returned – his face tired but less worn, more used. His things became more organized, though Sherlock's were never touched. The detective sometimes snuck in again, played violin while he slept and watched from the window as he padded into the living room sleepily confused and staring at the hastily abandoned instrument. Sherlock could never bring himself to stay. It had become a routine. A cycle.

Then it changed.

The microscope was the first indicator. Even from the window Sherlock could tell it had moved. Only slightly, but someone had touched it. Then it was his work, notes from cases, music sheets, books… all of it ordered and bound by string, piled in the corner. His experiments were next. Black bags littered the kitchen, boxes and bubble wrap protected the expensive stuff. His presence was slowly being whipped from the flat.

Then it was gone. One night, Sherlock looked into the window of 221B and it was all gone. The only thing that remained of his was the violin sat on the chair where he had left it maybe two weeks before. It both comforted and chilled him to the bone. Sherlock watched him sleep and tried to understand what had changed.

It was three more months before Sherlock couldn't find him one night. It wasn't the first time he had left the flat, but Sherlock usually found him at Molly's or Greg's chatting or drinking or, once or twice, crying. But this time was different. He wasn't there. He wasn't even at Sarah's, though Sherlock knew with one look he hadn't been there in at least a year, even during the day. He had vanished for the night.

It relaxed Sherlock momentarily when he returned the next night to find him cooking and talking with Mrs. Hudson. But the relief was short lived. It happened again. And again. Some times extending to two or three nights.

And then the boxes returned. But this time, it wasn't Sherlock that was being packed away. In one night everything was gone. And 221 B was empty. Sherlock pressed his hand to the glass. John had moved on.


End file.
